


A Proper Pair of Misfits

by per_mare_ad_astra



Series: Shipmas 2018 [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Magical Creatures, Shipmas 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 07:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16908978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/per_mare_ad_astra/pseuds/per_mare_ad_astra
Summary: She supposes they make an odd pair as they roam the castle grounds, Newt with his messy hair and long Hufflepuff scarf and the fairies and owl treats tucked away in his pockets, and Leta with her solemn airs and expensive robes. A proper pair of misfits. But it feelsright.





	A Proper Pair of Misfits

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[翻译] 彻头彻尾，一对怪人](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17105489) by [nattraven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nattraven/pseuds/nattraven)



> Written for day 4 of LittleRose13's 12 Days of Shipmas! The prompt was “I know you didn’t only stay at Hogwarts for the Cribbage’s Wizarding Crackers”, but I've changed it a little bit :)

“Here’s a present for you, Lestrange, since your family won’t give you any!”

Leta reaches for her wand instinctively, but she doesn’t get the chance to draw it before the Trip Jinx sends her sprawling. She bites back a cry as her hands break the fall, a sharp bolt of pain shooting up her left arm. Her bag slips from her shoulder, and the black stain that starts to spread across its side tells her that her inkwell has shattered. Again.

She gets to her feet slowly, the mocking laughter of the two Gryffindor girls who’ve attacked her making her blood boil, but she doesn’t lash out. Not yet. She picks up her bag, smooths out her skirt and robes, straightens her tie, tucks a strand of dark unruly hair behind her ear. She counts to ten, levelling a cold look at one of the girls, the one who has her wand out. For a split second, she considers walking away. Then the girl raises an eyebrow at her, daring her to retaliate, knowing that Leta shouldn’t.

So Leta does it, and the hex she sends her way is twice as vicious.

The girl’s dismayed cries as her face erupts in boils and her friend’s calls for a professor echo down the stone corridor, mingling with the rapid _tap-tap-tap_ of Leta’s shoes. Part of her wants to stay and admire her handiwork, but she’s already berating herself for it. She couldn’t stop herself, though. She never can.

She’ll get another week’s detention for this, maybe even two. She doesn’t care. The only thing that bothers her was that she’ll be punished _after_ the Christmas holidays—if she served her detentions now, at least time would go by faster. She’s already dreading how the days will drag on endlessly, how the few remaining students will enjoy themselves and their presents while Leta wanders along the castle’s corridors like a ghost, unwanted and forgotten by everyone else.

Lonely little Leta Lestrange, she thinks bitterly. A few things in her life have changed for the better in the past year, but that remains a constant. These girls will be home in a few hours, being spoiled and pampered by doting parents, and Leta will be on her own.

So she heads to the only place in the castle where she can forget about everything, even if it’s just for a little while. Down the stairs, past several empty corridors full of unused classrooms, through the Transfiguration Courtyard whose grass and tress are covered by a thin blanket of snow. Her hands and cheeks ache from the cold, but she barely notices as she finally reaches the wooden door that's tucked away in the shadows.

Newt’s kingdom. Her sanctuary.

“You _will_ look after them, won’t you, Leta?” Newt had asked her earnestly just a few days ago. And of course she’d said yes, she’d said it at least five times because Newt had been fretting like a mother hen, desperate to be absolutely sure his creatures wouldn’t be alone during his absence.

And they certainly won’t be—Leta plans to spend all of her free time in that cupboard, fixing Doxy wings and feeding Flobberworms and playing with the cuddly Kneazle that seems to have adopted her as its owner. She’ll still be lonely, but at least she’ll have more company than she did last year, or any year before that.

“ _Alohomora_.”

Nothing happens. Leta puts her wand away, sighing in exasperation. One day Newt will remember to lock the cupboard, but today clearly isn’t it. She pushes the door open, expecting to find the usual mess: crates of various sizes scattered across the room, bags and jars of food meant for all sorts of diets, bowls full of water that house minuscule aquatic beasts…

What she doesn’t expect, however, is to also find the messy-haired Hufflepuff there, sitting cross-legged by the windowsill and cupping a fluffy creature in his hands as he talks to it in soft tones. For a second she thinks her mind is playing tricks on her—it wouldn’t be the first time—but no, this is very much real.

“Newt,” she says, surprised. The door closes behind her with a thud. “I thought you’d left already. Shouldn’t you be getting your things? The train leaves in an hour…”

“I’m staying,” he says simply, not looking at her. He rarely does, but Leta doesn’t mind.

Her brow furrows. “But you didn’t sign up to stay. And you _told_ me you were going home, remember? You showed me your brother’s letter…”

“I’ve talked to Professor Bones, he’s arranged everything.” He glances at her briefly and gives her a quick smile before looking down again. “And Mum and Theseus will be fine, they don’t need me.”

_‘And who does?’_ she wonders. She casts a look around the cramped room, taking in all the different nests and creatures that live in them. Which one has made Newt decide to stay?

Last year it was a raven chick, and Merlin, has it already been that long since she first stumbled into that cupboard? She remembers how shocked and awed she’d been at first, but above all she’d been _curious_. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that little room full of extraordinary creatures and the strange boy who seemed to know everything about them. It didn't take her long to go looking for it—and him—again.

And now it feels like home. It feels _better_ than home. 

Still confused by this change in plans, she hurries up the stone steps, shivering as she walks past one of the cold spots. Newt has cast a complicated web of Warming and Cooling Charms across the room, each of them perfectly suited to a different creature. That had shocked her at first too, because she hadn’t thought the Scamander boy capable of such impressive magic; his head is in the clouds during most lessons, so he’d never struck her as particularly bright. She’d soon discovered she was wrong—Newt is one of the cleverest people she knows.

She sits down cross-legged next to him, their knees almost brushing, and she gets a clear look at the creature for the first time. It’s a Puffskein, a male one, judging by his peach-coloured fur. Leta frowns as she notices it’s shivering. “Does he have a cold?”

“Yes, but it’s not too serious,” Newt says. He gently strokes the top of the Puffskein’s head, and the poor creature lets out a desolate chirp. “He’s just feeling a little under the weather. Could you brew some Pepper-Up Potion for him? With extra—”

“Extra valerian sprigs, yes, I know.” Of course she knows. She doesn’t have Newt’s instincts, but she knows more than enough about magical creatures and how to care for them—it’s why he asked her to keep an eye on them for him, for Merlin’s sake. “Newt, are you _sure_ you want to stay? Won’t your family miss you?”

“Theseus has plenty of Ministry parties to attend and Mum will be busy with the hippogriffs,” he says distractedly. He tilts his head to one side, and the Puffskein mimics the movement, almost rolling over. “It’ll be better for everyone if I stay, I think.”

Maybe he doesn’t trust her to take care of his creatures. That’s it, isn’t it? But then why does he seem happy to be with her, why has he asked her to brew medicine instead of doing it himself?

“If you’re sure…” she begins doubtfully.

“I am.”

Frowning to herself, Leta goes over to the shelf where they keep their potions ingredients and starts to measure the valerian sprigs.

“You’ll feel better soon, I promise,” she hears Newt say quietly. “And you’ll remember to thank Leta, won’t you, Patrick?”

She’s still trying to make sense of all of this, but her lips twitch nonetheless. “Patrick the Puffskein?” she says, amused. “You know, I thought your naming skills would get better with time, but they seem to be getting worse.”

“Ah, well, I don’t think I should be judged by someone who called her Kneazle ‘Euterpe’.”

“It’s far better than naming an owl _Oscar_ ,” she counters.

“I’m not sure I agree.”

She turns to look at him. He’s smiling tentatively at her, so she returns the gesture before making her way back to him, cauldron and ingredients in hand. The Puffskein rolls over to her, watching curiously—while giving the occasional sniffle—as she starts a small fire beneath the cauldron.

She’s about to pour the first measure of honeywater in when Newt calls her. “Leta?”

“Yes?”

“Can I borrow a quill? I, um, haven’t actually told Theseus about this yet,” he says sheepishly.

She rolls her eyes fondly. “I’ve got a few in the back pocket of my bag.” They’re cheap and made of eagle feathers, but they’re all she has right now—her favourite peacock quill was snapped into bits a while ago, and she wasn’t able to Reparo it because she didn’t have all the pieces. She'll have to wait until the next Hogsmeade trip to buy one, because she knows better than to ask her father to do it.

There’s a rustling sound, and then a pause. “Your inkwell is broken,” Newt says, sounding perplexed. “Did you know that?”

“I ran into some friends on the way here” she says dryly. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll clean it later.”

“Oh.”

He doesn’t ask any more questions, which Leta is grateful for, and they exchange no more words after that. Silence falls between them as they settle into a comfortable rhythm, one they’ve grown used to in the past year. She begins to brew the potion, sneaking glances at him every now and then. She takes in his awkward posture (he’s grown lankier during the past few months and doesn’t seem to know what to do with his limbs), the way he barely has to stop and think while he’s writing because he’s so focused,how he tickles Patrick with the quill and smiles when the Puffskein wraps its long tongue around his index finger.

She doesn’t understand why Newt hasn’t gone back to his family, but she chalks it up to his eccentricity. He’s a puzzle, and undoubtedly the strangest person she’s ever met, but she’s glad to have him with her now.

 

* * *

 

Now that she isn’t on her own, what Leta expected to be a dull, depressing holiday quickly turns into something a lot more colourful and adventurous.

Newt attracts wounded creatures as easily as galleons attract Nifflers, or perhaps he simply has a good knack for finding them. Whatever the case, Patrick the Puffskein is only the first of many. They’re free to roam Hogwarts as they please now, so that’s what they do: they explore every inch of it, from the very top of the Astronomy Tower, where they find a disorientated barn owl, to the edges of the Forbidden Forest, where Newt shows her where salamanders hibernate. It feels strange to spend so much time with him—usually they only see each other in a handful of lessons and during the weekends—but she soon gets used to following him around the castle and watching him work, even though it can be exhausting.

“Newt,” she calls one afternoon, not sure if she’s more amused or frustrated. They’re in the Forbidden Forest, but not too far in, so she isn’t worried about any potentially dangerous creatures; her concern is for the reckless Hufflepuff she can barely make out through the snow-covered foliage. “Newt!”

“Just one moment, I’m almost there!”

“Newt, please, you’re going to slip.”

She had no idea he could be this fast: one moment he was standing next to Leta, and the next he was clambering up an old oak and already halfway up to the top before she could react. He’s standing on his tiptoes now, hand stretched out above him as he tries to reach the tiny fairy whose wings have got caught on something she can't see. She’d climb up after him, but she doesn’t trust the slender, frost-covered branches. Anyone in their right mind wouldn’t, but Newt Scamander doesn’t let silly things like _safety_ stand between him and a magical creature, so Leta supposes it’s her job to go along with it and stop him from breaking his neck.

“ _Ha_ , there we go.”

Just as she'd predicted, the second he grabs ahold of the fairy his foot slips and, with a strangled yell, he comes plummeting down.

“ _Arresto Momentum_!”

The spell works flawlessly, and she feels a rare surge of pride when Newt’s fall slows down until he lands gently on the snow. He doesn’t waste a single second worrying about himself, however; his concern is for the fairy cupped in his hands. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that his robes are getting soaked.

“Come on, we can get your wing fixed now. You’ll be right as rain in no time,” Leta hears him murmur. Her lips twitch.

“You’re welcome, Mr Scamander,” she says pointedly.

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Leta.” He’s so distracted that he probably isn’t aware what he’s thanking her for, but she lets it slide. Rolling her eyes, she transfigures one of her gloves into a blanket and throws it over him as they start to make their way out of the forest.

He calls the fairy Florence, and apparently fairies live in groups and can’t stand to be separated, so all of its friends follow them back to the castle. By the time Florence is healed, they’ve grown so attached to the place that they settle down there without asking, filling the cupboard with their glow and constant chittering. As far as Christmas decorations go, Leta thinks they’re lovelier than any of the others in Hogwarts.

The following days pass in a similar fashion. They venture down to the kitchens and eat a whole basket of mince pies between them, they go to the Owlery and talk as they watch the snow fall, they spend hours in the cupboard, discussing magical creatures and where they can be found… Leta puts her foot down quite firmly when Newt hints that he might like to dive into the Black Lake to check on the Grindylows, but he looks at her with an amused little smile when she’s halfway through chastising him, and that’s when she realises she’s being teased. She’s not amused. Well, she is, but just a little bit.

And it’s thanks to him that, without meaning to and for the first time in her life, Leta finds herself having _fun_ at Hogwarts. The Christmas holidays have always been a lonely, miserable time for her, but now she has Newt to distract her, and it’s easy to let everything else fade into the background. He seeks her out, talking about fire crabs and Horklumps—he talks a surprising amount when he’s certain that the other person wants to listen—and she can’t help being charmed by his eagerness.

She supposes they make an odd pair as they roam the castle grounds, Newt with his messy hair and long Hufflepuff scarf and the fairies and owl treats tucked away in his pockets, and Leta with her solemn airs and expensive robes. A proper pair of misfits. But it feels _right._

Still, she can’t help but wonder what other people think of this; more specifically, she wonders what her family would say if they knew a Lestrange was walking around the Forbidden Forest with a half-blood, the hem of her robes and skirt stained with mud, her behaviour nowhere near as proper and demure as it should be. Maybe they wouldn’t care, just like they haven’t cared about her existence for most of her life. Or maybe they would, and then she’d be forbidden from seeing the only person who seems to genuinely like her.

She tries not to dwell on it, because it’s not like she’ll ever know what they think, anyway. She’s never received a letter from home in all her years at Hogwarts. It used to upset her—she vividly remembers crying herself to sleep on Christmas Day when she was a first year—but she’s older now. She’s accepted it. She knows that this is simply the way things are and that it’s pointless to wish they were different, even though she can’t help herself sometimes.

Some days it just hurts more than others, especially now, when every day is a painful reminder that she doesn’t have what everyone else does.

“Tell me about your family,” she asks Newt one frosty morning. The day has dawned crisp and white, and an endless pearl grey sky stretches overhead as far as the eye can see. They’re sitting at the top of the Astronomy Tower, Leta dangling her feet off the edge, Newt at her side. He’s just received yet another letter delivered by a haughty-looking brown owl, the fifth in as many days, and Leta can’t keep quiet anymore.

“I’ve already told you,” Newt says distractedly. He’s hunched over himself, busy feeding treats to the owl.

And he _has_ told her. Briefly. She knows that Mrs Scamander breeds hippogriffs, and she knows all of their names and how long it took each one to learn how to fly. She also knows that Newt’s older brother works as an Auror, and that Newt doesn't like that very much, but that’s it. She knows _of_ them, but not _about_ them.

“Tell me more,” she insists. “Your brother, Theseus—what is he like? Why does he send you so many letters?”

She probably shouldn’t ask. She’s poking at a subject that she should avoid, for her sake and because Newt clearly doesn’t enjoy discussing it, but she has this _need_ to know more about Newt’s ordinary, loving family—so different from her own—and she’s never been good at controlling her impulses.

Newt looks up from the owl, his blue-green eyes meeting hers. He usually finds it difficult to make eye contact with people, but there’s a gentle sort of intensity in his gaze as he stares at her now. Being the sole focus of his attention is unnerving, and it makes Leta feel distinctly wrong-footed, as if she’s letting him see more than he should. Her heart skips a beat. 

After what seems like a small eternity, Newt looks down again and fishes out another owl treat from his pocket. “You wouldn’t like Theseus,” he says.

“Oh?”

“He’s allergic to Kneazles.” 

Leta stares at him as the words sink in. Then she frowns, puzzled by that nonsense response, and is opening her mouth to speak when she sees Newt’s crooked little half-smile. He’s teasing her again—he seems to have developed a taste for it during the past few days.

She huffs out a laugh, and he looks pleased. “Oh, how _dare_ he. What other crimes has he committed?”

So Newt tells her. He tells her about the time he smuggled a sick Kneazle into his home and hid it in his room, only to get caught when Theseus walked in and immediately started sneezing. He tells her about how Theseus doesn’t like to go looking for fairies with him at Christmas, but will always help him decorate the tree when Newt brings them home. He tells her a handful of anecdotes that give her a clearer picture of the older Scamander brother, who seems to be too overbearing for Newt’s liking, but Leta isn’t interested in him; what fascinates her is the way Newt talks about him, with exasperation as well as an underlying current of fondness that he can’t quite hide.

“Theseus is very…” Newt struggles to find the words when Leta asks to know more. “He likes _rules_. He always does what he’s supposed to do, so people tend to like him.” Leta gets the distinct impression that he doesn't approve of that. It's not surprising: Newt is more likely to break rules than follow them.

“Do _you_ like him?”

“Most of the time. And sometimes he drives me a bit mad because he’s… he’s… Well, he’s Theseus.” His eyes flicker to Leta’s, and he smiles fleetingly. “He finds me very frustrating, I think—most people do. But he’s always been good to me. Do you have anyone like that in your own family?”

She almost laughs out loud again, but without humour this time. 

She doesn’t lack relatives: the Lestrange family is far-reaching, and she has distant blood ties to just about every French pureblood line. She must have innumerable cousins and aunts and uncles of various degrees, and she doesn’t know or care about a single one. She only has her father. 

And she had someone else once, but not anymore.

“No,” she says, something in her chest twisting painfully. “No, I don’t have anyone.”

She wonders what it must be like to have a mother and a brother who love you, who send you letters and home-made nougat and drive you mad because they care about you too much. She tries to shove those thoughts away before they can take root—she’s always so careful to keep her mind off them—but she can’t stop asking questions now, even though every story Newt tells cuts like a knife. She’s glad he has people who care for him, but oh, she envies him his family in a way that’s too raw and real.

She wants something like that for herself, even though she doesn’t deserve it.

Every dark thought and doubt she’s been keeping at bay for the past few days resurfaces as she listens to Newt talk, and she hates herself for pushing him to do it. She wants to stop listening. She can’t. She looks down at the grounds, swinging her legs back and forth, feeling her heart clench. 

Not for the first time, she wonders what Newt is getting out of this, because there must be _something_. He can’t have stayed at Hogwarts purely because of a sick Puffskein and the injured creatures in his cupboard—it was Leta’s job to care for them, and he knew that. He didn’t have to stay, not when he has people who want him. He shouldn’t have stayed. There’s nothing and no one for him here.

If _she_ had a proper family to go back to, she would’ve been the first one to get on the train. She can’t comprehend why anyone wouldn’t choose to do that.

“You should have gone home to them, Newt,” she interrupts him. “To Theseus and your mother.”

The words come out, sharp and honest, before she can really think them through. She immediately wishes she could take them back because she isn’t sure she means them. They’ll make Newt uncomfortable, and it’s almost as if she’s trying to push him away even though that’s the last thing she wants. But she doesn't _understand_.

“No, I—” Newt fumbles for words. “I don’t think so.”

“But you miss them,” she presses, turning to face him.

“Yes.” His eyes flicker to hers, and for a moment it seems like he might say something else, but he remains silent and goes back to stroking the owl’s feathers.

She doesn’t know how to reply to that. She thinks she might be angry at him, or maybe she’s angry at herself, or maybe she’s just sad. Her feelings always seem to be tangled up and confusing, and she’s too tired to undo the knots now.

A cold wind makes her shiver and she hugs her knees to her chest, looking out at the lake and the snow-covered mountains that surround Hogwarts. She can feel Newt’s eyes on her and wonders what he sees: a girl with no family, with no one in the whole world who’ll think of her during this time of year. Lonely little Leta Lestrange. She recalls the Gryffindor girl’s taunts and tries to make herself smaller, as if that will stop them from echoing in her mind—they may have been unoriginal and infuriating, but there was a lot of truth in them and they definitely found their mark.

The silence between them grows longer. Newt doesn’t look away, and she almost feels like she’s one of his creatures, given the way he’s studying her. After a while she sees him shift out of the corner of her eye, and a hesitant hand tugs at her robes.

“Leta?”

“Yes?” Her voice sounds hoarse.

“Do you want to visit the salamanders again?” he asks softly.

Perhaps she should be annoyed by how he’s changed the subject, but it comes as a relief. She nods, not trusting herself to speak.

The brown owl flies off as Newt gets to his feet. He holds out his hand to help her up, and Leta notices that it’s red from the cold—he’s forgotten to bring his gloves again, and he’s probably so lost in his own little world that he hasn’t realised he needs them. She takes it, finally looking up and meeting his eyes. His expression is unreadable to her, but he offers her a tentative smile before looking down again and leading her away from the edge of the tower and down the stone steps.

He doesn’t let go of her hand, and she holds on tight.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about their families again, but something shifts between them after that conversation. There’s no huge change, no sudden switch in the way they talk to each other or spend time together, and yet Leta feels less alone. She lets Newt take her hand and distract her with his creatures and stories, and she slowly finds herself feeling lighter.

The following days pass in a blur until Christmas Eve finally arrives. Leta’s pockets are full of smuggled gingerbread biscuits that she’s stuffed into a small tin as she leaves the Great Hall after dinner, ignoring the creaky suit of armour that tries to get her to sing a carol with it. Newt’s run off to the Owlery to send off his presents to his family, so she’s got the cupboard all to herself for a while, and she finds that she doesn’t mind the solitude as much now. Newt will be back, and the present she’ll give him tomorrow is already neatly wrapped and locked in her trunk for safety, and she feels… at peace. As much as is possible for her.

She curls up by the window, her Ancient Runes homework spread around her, a heavy dictionary perched on her lap and the tin of gingerbread biscuits at her side. Every now and then she glances at Euterpe, who meows pitifully as she paws at the pair of fairies who’ve perched themselves on the shelf, and her lips twitch.

She’s wrinkling her nose at her eagle quill, blaming it for her uneven handwriting, when the door bursts open.

Leta jumps, knocking her inkwell over as she fumbles for her wand, but she pauses when she realises it’s just Newt. And then she _really_ takes him in, and her eyebrows shoot up. His reddish-brown curls are wilder than ever and peppered with melting snowflakes, his freckled cheeks are flushed with colour, and he’s carrying some kind of quivering bundle wrapped in his scarf.

“Leta,” he says breathlessly, completely unaware of the fact that he looks like an utter madman. “You’re very good at Charms.”

“And you’re very… wet?”

He ignores her as he sprints up the steps, leaving a messy trail of footprints behind. Leta barely has time to gather her notes and dictionaries and press herself against the wall before he falls to his knees in front of her, producing something purple and fluffy out of his scarf that he presents to her without a word, as if she’s supposed to instinctively understand what’s going on. She peers at the thing curiously, her heart still pounding.

It’s a small, angry-looking bird with a curved tail and a lovely pink and purple plumage that reminds her of a sunset. Its feathers are ruffled, and its dark eyes regard her with mistrust as it opens its beak to chirp at her; however, no sound comes out. Looking positively furious now, it hops onto Newt’s arm, as if it wants to get away from her. Leta tries not to think too much of it.

“Is that a Fwooper?” she asks, edging closer.

“Yes.”

She waits for an explanation, but it doesn’t come—Newt seems to be fascinated by the creature, which is currently nipping at the loose threads of his scarf. She frowns. “Newt, where did you get a Fwooper? They’re not native birds.”

He doesn’t answer for a few seconds, but he glances at her before looking determinedly down again. Her eyes narrow: Newt only ever does that when he’s nervous. “She’s not well, you see,” he begins, blinking rapidly. “She’s not used to this sort of climate, because Fwoopers tend to prefer dry areas like—”

“ _Newt_.”

“Professor Prendergast keeps her as a pet, but he’s gone home for the holidays and left her behind, and when I saw her, I—”

Leta gapes at him. “You’ve _stolen Prendergast’s pet_?”

She doesn’t know why she’s surprised. After all, this is the boy who is willing to walk into the Forbidden Forest in the dead of night to look for a wounded Mooncalf, the boy who once told Professor McGonagall to her face that he doesn’t think it’s ethical to turn tortoises into teapots.

“She’s ill!” Newt says defensively, looking up at her. “I—I found her in the Owlery. She was trying to pick a fight with the school owls, you see, because they can all talk to each other and she can’t make a sound because she’s been Silenced, and I think she felt lonely, and that made her aggressive. She hurt one of them, I stepped in, and she tried to attack me.” Leta’s gaze flickers to his hands, which are covered in scratches. “And that’s when I saw she’s sick, too. See how she’s puffed up her feathers? And I can feel her shivering.”

The Fwooper does look miserable. It’s squinting at its surroundings with suspicion, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

Leta feels a pang of pity for it. “What’s wrong with her, exactly?”

“I don’t know—it’s hard to tell with the Silencing Charm, but I think she might have a cold, like Patrick did. I’ve been trying to break the charm, but _Finite_ won’t work, and I couldn’t go to the library because I’d have to leave her alone and she’d likely hurt herself again.” His eyes are fixed on the Fwooper as he speaks, but he’s frowning, the words rushing out of him as his frustration mounts. Then he looks up at Leta so suddenly that she almost jumps. “But you can help, can’t you, Leta? You read a lot about Charms, and you’re clever. I’ve heard Professor Bones say you’re the best in our year.” He doesn’t mean it as praise—these are all just simple facts to him, and he remains unaware of the way her cheeks grow warm.

Leta immediately wants to say yes, of course she’ll help, but something holds her back. She’s read about Fwoopers—there are dozens of bestiaries in her library at home, and they’ve been her bedtime stories since she learned how to read. She knows all about these creatures: the good _and_ the bad.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to break the Silencing Charm?” she asks warily. “Fwoopers are dangerous, I’ve read that their twittering can…” She trails off, regretting her words instantly. Newt doesn’t look at her as he keeps tending to the creature, smoothing out its feathers, but he doesn’t need to say anything to make his disapproval clear. She sighs. “Newt, I only meant—”

“Yes, the Fwooper’s song can have adverse effects on the human brain,” Newt says stiffly, blinking rapidly, “but that doesn’t mean they’re _dangerous_. And no one has _any_ right to take their voice away with a charm. It’s cruel and—and selfish, and I won’t stand for it.”

“I know,” she says softly. “And I agree with you, I think it’s unfair, but I—I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. I just… I don’t want you to get hurt. Please.” He’s always so concerned about the wellbeing of his creatures that he forgets about his own. It’s endearing, and he wouldn’t be _Newt_ if he didn’t do it; she just wishes he’d be more prudent. “But I’ll do what I can to help.”

His eyes flicker to hers again, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he gently coaxes the Fwooper so it’ll hop down to his open palm and then he offers it to Leta. She knows him well enough to tell it’s his own way of showing her she’s forgiven.

She takes the bird carefully. It isn’t thrilled to be in her hands—she must be poor company compared to Newt—but it doesn’t attack her either. It watches her warily, its dark eyes not that different from her own. She smiles tentatively at it, and it blinks back before suddenly shaking the rain off its plumage, splattering her with droplets. A couple of its feathers flutter down.

Newt huffs out a laugh, and she pretends to glare at him before taking out her wand and starting to work.

It takes her almost an hour to unravel the string of Silencing Charms that have been placed on it. It’s tricky work because they’re so intricately bound to one another, but she breaks them one by one. Newt sits patiently at her side, and she can hear him scratching away at something, but her attention is focused solely on the Fwooper.

And then, finally, she breaks the last charm.

The Fwooper’s first bout of joyful—albeit raspy—twittering immediately gives her a headache, but Newt seems unfazed as he takes the bird from her hands and shushes it.

“Can you wait just a little bit longer?” he says kindly. “I know you want to sing, but your voice isn’t quite right yet and we don’t want you to hurt yourself, do we?”

To Leta’s surprise, the Fwooper listens.

The trickiest part may be over, but there’s still a lot of work to do. Newt asks her to brew some Calore Potion to soothe the bird’s throat, so she busies herself gathering the ingredients and setting up their small cauldron. While she waits for the base mixture to boil, she settles down by the window again. Newt is still working on something, but he’s turned away from her, blocking her view. She’s fighting the temptation to peek when the Fwooper hops over to her and perches itself on her shoulder, tweeting only once and very softly. She doesn’t ask what will become of the creature when it gets its voice back and is no longer a useful pet, but she suspects Professor Prendergast won’t be seeing it again. She’s glad, in a vindictive sort of way.

_‘It is said that a Fwooper’s song is beautiful’_ , she remembers reading. They’re birds that are meant to live in vast communities so they can listen and echo and harmonise, thus creating the lovely music with which they communicate. It’s not a sound meant for the human ear, but that hasn’t stopped wizards from domesticating them. Once a Fwooper is sold, its voice is taken away with a series of complex Silencing Charms so it won’t drive its owner insane with its high-pitched warbling. They’re pets that are meant to be seen, not heard. They’re silenced forever just so their beauty can be admired and shown off.

A songbird that isn’t allowed to sing… She can’t help relating to it. She isn’t allowed to sing either, is she? She’s quiet at home because no one wants to remember she exists, and even quieter at school because every word she says will be mocked or used against her. No one wants to hear her voice, to the extent that she’s never had one in her own family, just like all of the Lestrange women before her. They really aren’t so different, her and that creature. She strokes its feathers gently, and it nips at her fingers without any real aggression.

“Leta?” She turns to look at Newt. She’s always liked the way he says her name: carefully, earnestly, as if he wants to get it exactly right every time because it _matters_. To everyone else she’s just ‘Lestrange’, but not to him.

“Yes, Newt?”

“Can I…” He struggles to meet her eye, his hands toying with something that she can’t make out in the dim light. It must be whatever he’s been scratching away at for the past half hour. “Can I give you a present?”

Her heart skips a beat, though she doesn't know why. “Christmas Day is tomorrow,” she says, puzzled.

“I know,” he replies, finally looking at her properly. “But it’s not that sort of present. Can I, please?”

She didn’t know that there are different kinds of presents, and she certainly hadn’t expected one from him. She never expects any from anyone.

She nods mutely. Newt gives her a flickering smile and offers his hand to her. On his palm lies a handsome pink and purple feather, its tip sharpened so it can be used as a quill. She stares at it, uncomprehending.

“Madeline McLaggen snapped your peacock quill three weeks ago,” Newt says abruptly, the words rushing out of him like a waterfall, like he’s been keeping them in for too long. “And you’re using eagle quills now, but I know they bother you because they’re too big. But Fwooper feathers are very narrow, you see, so this quill will fit the shape of your hand better. They’re also very resilient, so no one will be able to break it, and it’ll last for much longer.” He demonstrates by bending it. “And I know you must like purple because you wear it so often—all of your scarves are in different shades of it. So I… I thought you might like it.” He’s looking at her with wide eyes, waiting for her to react.

She doesn’t know what to say.

Her eyes flicker from the quill to him, her heart pounding. She looses a shaky breath, trying to gather her thoughts, trying to make sense of this new side to Newt that she hadn’t even suspected existed. She feels like she’s seeing him clearly for the first time.

Newt lives with his head in the clouds. He’s impulsive and scatter-brained and unmindful, except for where his creatures are concerned. He lives in his own little world, and more often than not he forgets that other people exist and is completely unaware of their problems.

But he’s _observant_. She hadn’t realised just how much. She’s never complained about her eagle quillsto him or told anyone what her favourite colour is, and Newt has never asked, but he’s _noticed_ , he’s read her like an open book and tried to fix a small problem in that careful, entirely selfless way of his.

_‘What else has he noticed? What else has he tried to fix?’_ she wonders, and that’s when all the puzzle pieces start to fall into place.

**_“Why did you stay?”_** She must have asked him that question a dozen times in the past week, and he’s never given her a proper answer. Because he doesn’t _need_ to, not really. He doesn’t need to say it out loud because he’s been giving her his answer every day, in so many ways: by keeping her company, by taking her hand that day in the Astronomy Tower and leading her away from her darker thoughts, by taking her from one place to the next, distracting her… He’s noticed her loneliness just like he's noticed her eagle quills, and he’s done his best to fix both problems even though no one asked him to.

And Merlin, Newt hasn’t been subtle in the slightest, but it simply hadn’t occurred to Leta that he might have stayed at Hogwarts for _her_. But he has, hasn’t he?

A part of her rebels against that. She doesn’t need to be looked after, she doesn’t want it, she isn’t a raven chick with a broken leg that can easily be fixed. She doesn’t want Newt to fix her—or she thinks she doesn’t. But on the other hand… These past few days have been the happiest she’s had in a very long time, and she’s grateful for it. It’s such a blessed relief to _matter_ to someone for once.

“Newt,” she says quietly. Her voice doesn’t quaver, though she’s struggling to hold back tears. “You didn’t stay at Hogwarts for the Puffskein, did you? Or for any other creature, because you knew I could take care of them.”

But with Newt gone, there would be no one who could take care of _her_. And he didn’t want that to happen.

His hand falls, but he doesn’t let go of the quill. She sees that same gentle intensity in his eyes again, and he’s looking at her the same way he looked at the Fwooper: like he wants nothing more than to _help_. He nods.

“I know you don’t like being alone,” he says softly. “And I know you don’t like that I know that, but I do, and I don’t want you to feel that way. Alone, I mean. You shouldn’t be—no one should.”

Her first instinct is to look away, to clam up and protect herself because this is _terrifying_. But she keeps her walls down—she owes him that much, and she knows with a deep, unshakeable certainty that Newt would never hurt or mock someone who’s vulnerable. So she takes the quill with one hand and laces their fingers together with the other. He’s warmer this time, and she can feel the callouses on his palm.

“Thank you,” is all she can whisper, because she’s always struggled with putting her feelings into words.

He seems to understand, though, and his lips stretch into a bashful smile. “You’ve stayed with me too, Leta, so many times. And you’ve helped me even when you didn’t have to.” He looks down at their entwined hands and blinks. “I’m sorry, I know I should thank you more. And I…” His blue-green eyes meet hers again. “You’re very kind, Leta. I think you should know that.”

She wants to contradict him. _Newt_ is the kind one. It comes naturally to him, like an impulse—he doesn’t have to think about it, doesn’t waste time thinking whether the other person deserves his kindness. He simply gives it because it’s the right thing to do. Leta wishes she could be more like him, but she’s too cold, too wary, too damaged.

She has her issues, and Newt has his quirks, and Merlin, they really are a pair of misfits. They fit in nowhere except with each other.

And that’s enough.

So she squeezes his hand and lets it drop. It feels like something has shifted between them again, like they’ve taken a first step in a new direction. She doesn’t know where they’re going, exactly, but she _does_ know that this feels perfectly, unshakeably right. It’s as if a small weight has been lifted off her shoulders, as if she’s finally seeing rays of sun after living under a cloudy sky for too long.

The Fwooper sings a high, clear note, making them flinch and look up. It’s observing them from the very top of the shelf and it doesn’t seem to have taken too kindly to being forgotten for five minutes.

“What are you going to do when Prendergast finds out he hasn’t got a pet anymore?” Leta asks. “He’ll suspect you’re behind it, you know.” Their Professor has never liked Newt much—he’s taken it as a personal offence that the Hufflepuff cares more about creatures than the subject he teaches.

Newt looks confused, as if it hasn’t occurred to him that the consequences of helping the Fwooper could be anything but good. He blinks at her owlishly. “Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. There’s no point in worrying yet.”

She likes that they’re a ‘we’. Newt and Leta. Leta and Newt.

“You’re going to get us expelled for kidnapping,” she chides him. “For _fwoopernapping_.”

That makes him laugh, for real this time: his whole face lights up, his eyes crinkling slightly, and as he throws his head back he loses his balance and ends up falling flat on his back. His expression turns bewildered, but then _Leta_ bursts out laughing, and after watching her in astonishment for a few seconds he joins her until they’re both giggling like a pair of mischievous children, their sides aching in the most wonderful way. The Fwooper watches them, warbling softly, as if it wants to join in.

This strange boy, with his extraordinary creatures and his big heart. She’s glad to have him.

Grinning widely and still feeling laughter bubbling inside her, Leta tucks her Fwooper quill behind her ear and starts to brew.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a real challenge to write (new and very complex characters, new style...) but I'm SO glad I managed to finish it!
> 
> Please let me know what you thought, and thank you so much for reading!! ❤️
> 
> Tumblr: per-mare-ad-astra  
> Twitter: @astoriamalfoys


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